The Bravery of the Soldier
by Freyer Meind
Summary: It's a special day, and Mary Morstan and John Watson each pay a visit to a special someone, and don't tell each other about it. First chapter is Mary POV. Another oneshot, but it has two chapters, this time. Warning: This is a bit sad, but it holds hope in the end. John/Mary
1. Chapter 1

Historian's Note: This takes place about a year after The Reichenbach Fall. John and Mary have met and have been dating for two months.

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, nor the original Sherlock stories. I'm just a penniless fanfiction writer. Don't sue me!

 _All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on._

 _-Henry Ellis_

It was a crisp autumn afternoon, with only a mild chill in the air. Still, she chose to wrap up warm with a stylish new coat, and a clumsy scarf. Clumsy, as she'd knitted it herself. Knitted a pair, in fact. The other one was being gamely sported by the love of her life. A sacrifice he denies making, as he was proud of her efforts, and proud to wear her home-made scarf.

She can see right through him, though. Can see the wince he so valiantly contained every time he walked past a shiny reflective surface out in the streets. Can hear the way his brain turned, coming up with defenses every time people at work teased him about his new fashion accessory.

He wore her scarf, anyway. "It's a Mary Morstan original," he'd say. But that was John Watson for you. Loyal to a fault.

Poor love.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" she asked, as they walked to the parking lot together. It was one of those none-too-frequent days when their shifts didn't coincide, and she can leave work a few hours ahead of him. "You missed tea; we can just get a quick nibble before you head back for the rest of your shift."

"I'm good," he reassured her, tugging at his scarf, ostensibly to rearrange it, but actually just to scratch at his neck a bit. Mary had chosen fabric with an itchy lining.

"Sure? You almost never miss tea. When you do, you're stomach always makes these weird noises."

John gave her a mock scowl. "My stomach is expressive. What's it to you?"

"I just don't want you missing meals, is all."

"I'm really not hungry, pet."

No, he wasn't. Hadn't had much of an appetite these last few weeks. Ever since the start of the month, actually.

She wished she could tell him that she knew why. But more than that, she wished he'd just tell her why.

Maybe that was asking for too much, too soon.

"Alright, then." She leaned toward him for a quick kiss, and he opened the door of her car for her like the proper gentleman that he was. "I'll join you for dinner later," she said to him, once she was buckled up behind the wheel. "Probably eight-ish, though."

"What? Why?"

"John, did you forget? I told you Janine and I have plans to go shopping this afternoon, and you know us two. We can go all through the evening."

"Oh, right."

"You don't mind, do you, dear?"

"Of course not. You told me that yesterday."

"Day before, actually."

He smiled a bit. "Sorry. I did forget. Lotta things on my mind lately."

It was a lie, she knew there was only one thing on his mind, but she didn't call him on it. With a twirl of her fingers, she bade him goodbye, and pulled out of the parking lot.

Her mobile phone emitted a text alert, which she ignored until she came into her first stop light. She could just as easily have checked the phone and drove at the same time. She'd driven under riskier circumstances.

But texting and driving was reckless behavior. And Mary Morstan didn't do reckless.

 _Are you on your way?_ was the text underneath Janine's name.

 _Yeah, but I'll be running late. Traffic, you know how it is_. Her reply was completed just in time for the traffic light to turn green, and without so much as fumbling for her phone, Mary shifted gears and smoothly continued on her way.

She took a couple of turns, through side streets that only cabbies ever used. She kept to the speed limit, but swerved around slow poke cars in ways that only police ever executed. Well, police and criminals on the run.

Mary rationalized it all as taking a short cut. And anyway, a girl had to keep her skills sharp. She never knew when she might need them again.

She reached her destination within fifteen minutes. As soon as she alighted from her car, a brisk gust of wind swept up, causing her to huddle into her coat. The wind rustled the leaves that crunched beneath her feet, shaking loose the ones that still tenaciously clung to tree branches above.

She looked around her. The place was quiet and still. There was barely anyone around. There was a hush to the area, a very particular kind. It wasn't the lull before the storm that she had been too well-acquainted with; it wasn't somnolent, either. There was something here that reminded her of the pause that comes right after a door is closed.

But wasn't finality simply a trait of cemeteries?

Mary wove her way around headstones and gravestones. There were statues of weeping angels; crucifixes and the occasional Star of David. Symbols of the faith that was practiced by the deceased during their time among the living.

She wondered what _he_ had faith in.

The headstone was stark in its simplicity; polished gray marble, the name engraved in white. There was nothing else on it. No dates; no messages. Just the name.

Sherlock Holmes.

There was a spray of beautiful, fresh roses. Another, a small basket of yellow daisies. Such a difference. Mary wondered briefly who could have brought such flowers to the grave of a man who had professed no appreciation for anything with sentiment at its core. She knew none of them were from John. Mrs. Hudson, maybe, the landlady John still avoided visiting. Or calling.

It would hurt too much, Mary supposed, to see someone who had loved Sherlock as much as John did.

Mary opened her purse, retrieving from it a long, slender box. Inside the box was a single, beeswax votive candle. She'd had to buy it in secret; her relationship with John was new enough that he was still extremely attuned to anything new she did, still trying to familiarize himself with her likes and dislikes. If he'd seen the candle, he would ask what it was for, and although she can give a convincing answer, she didn't want to have to lie to him about this. Not this.

She planted the candle in front of the headstone. It was so white, it almost glowed. She lit it with the cigarette lighter she'd brought with her, the one she found in John's sock drawer. It was an odd place to find a cigarette lighter, but then, John was an odd man. She cupped her palms around the flame that sputtered against the whistling breeze. Mary then sat on the ground, cross-legged.

"Hello, Sherlock," she murmured. She felt silly; never before had any grave held any significance for her. They were nothing to her. Just a tangible evidence of one of her end goals. Sometimes, they gave useful information, such as identities that can be appropriated.

But this grave mattered. This grave mattered to John Watson. And anything that mattered to John Watson mattered to Mary Morstan.

That didn't make it feel any less odd to be speaking to a headstone. Mary shifted uneasily. She wasn't superstitious by any stretch of the imagination. Her friends, those who thought they knew her, have heard her claim this was a natural result of being a nurse. She dealt with the strictly clinical aspect of the human experience. What lay beyond that was no concern of hers. It made sense, and it was easy enough to accept, so they didn't question it.

They had no way of knowing it was one of the very few truths Mary Morstan have ever told them. She was no believer.

So why was it so . . . she chewed on her lower lip.

Yet another breeze. The flame guttered, but soldiered on. A few leaves fell and landed near her.

Tapping her fingertips on her knees, Mary murmured, "You're probably wondering who the bloody hell I am." She smiled. "My name is Mary. John's Mary. He and I have been together a few months now. This is probably the time when he would've introduced me to you, and you would have tried to chase me off with your customary brand of diplomacy and tact."

She noticed a ladybug creeping stealthily up the dangerous stem of one of the blood red roses. Mary followed its progress with her eyes. "You would've failed," she said softly. So softly, even the ladybug couldn't hear.

For some reason, though, she knew Sherlock could. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes was still around. Still very much a part of this world.

There was something damn near un-killable about that man.

Mary should know. Killing wasn't something she was naïve about.

"I'm in love with John, Sherlock," she continued, voice stronger now. She straightened her spine. Sherlock would take any slouch as an offense to such a profound declaration. "Even you would see it, if you would just observe. Never mind. The point is that I want you to know that you broke his heart. But he's fighting to heal. Because he's John Watson, and fighting is what he does best."

Her mind went back to the last two months; the months she and John have had so far. John was carrying on. Going to work; seeing some old mates; sometimes even quarreling with Harry again.

Carrying on. Her brave, British soldier.

"He hasn't mentioned you," Mary finally let it out. Finally said the thing that had been bothering her the most. "He knows I know about you. Just about everyone he meets knows about you. Every time someone tries to insult your memory, John rises to your defense. He doesn't hesitate, and he never backs down. But he doesn't talk about you. He hasn't visited Mrs. Hudson; hasn't so much as picked up the phone to speak to Molly Hooper. There are a few people sympathetic toward him. They try to draw him out, try to get him to release it all. John just brushes them off. He has a therapist, he'd say, and she'll do just fine for that sort of thing."

Mary raised her knees and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her chin on top of her knees, and stared at the headstone as though she can read all the answers on it. "How did you do it?" she murmured. "How did you get him to let all the pain of the war out? How did you talk to him so he didn't walk away from you? How . . . how did you become his best friend?"

"How did you let him know that he can trust you completely?"

The ladybug's wings fluttered. In a second, it had taken flight.

Mary can hear the dull ticking of her wristwatch as she turned her head, resting her cheek on her knees. It just reminded her that she was running late for her shopping trip with Janine, and Mary couldn't really afford to lose Janine as a friend. Not just yet. But she made no move to leave, because she felt that she still had more to say, only she wasn't entirely sure of the words just yet.

Funny, to worry so about how she might sound to a dead man. The dead had never bothered her before. At least not during her waking hours. It was only in her dreams that she saw their faces. But she hadn't been seeing much of them lately.

Not since John Watson came into her life.

John must see Sherlock every night. In his dreams, where she couldn't follow.

And Mary knew just what she wanted to say.

"He doesn't have to stop seeing you," she said simply, raising her head again, to look at the headstone. "I want you to know that I don't mind. That I'll _never_ mind. He never has to think of you in a bad light in order to think of me at all. He never has to pretend that you never happened just to carry on with me. You . . . you were the defining experience of his life, Sherlock. He was always John Watson, but he was only free to be so when you arrived." Mary paused. Somehow, it wasn't enough. "And more than that, more than that, Sherlock . . ." She closed her eyes. Opened them again. "You were brothers. You loved him. Whatever you said or didn't say, you loved him. And for that, I'll always be grateful to you. For that, you'll always have a place in our lives. Even only in memory."

There, now. That felt better.

Another breeze, and this time, the flame didn't withstand it. Mary decided to just let it stay out. When she left, any other breeze can just kill the flame anyway; that, or the candle will simply melt to a splodgy spot on the ground. She put the cigarette lighter beside the candle. John probably wouldn't miss it. So far, he hadn't, after she'd taken it from his sock drawer.

"He's been agitated lately. No appetite. Forgetting things." Mary shifted to a kneeling position as she spoke. "But you must know why, right? This is a tough month for him. And today is the toughest day. I don't know if he'll come visit you, but . . . well, I hope he does."

At that, Mary stood up. She brushed the seat of her pants off, and then reached out and put a hand on top of the headstone. She smiled, and hoped that wherever Sherlock was, he can see it.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," she said.

Author's Note: I have no idea when Sherlock's birthday is supposed to be. I read somewhere that it should be on January 6, but I'm not sure. Anyway, I felt that autumn was the more appropriate season for this vignette to take place.


	2. What John had to Say

John didn't remember making his way to the cemetery from work. All he knew was that he'd finished up with all of his appointments in record time, left the paperwork for tomorrow, and then clocked out on the very minute his shift ended.

A cab ride should've taken him to a pub for a pint. Mary won't be joining him until eight, he knew, and he needed a bit to tide him over.

But here he was now.

He hadn't been here in eight months and five days. He'd counted every day of every week since the one and only time he'd visited this grave with Mrs. Hudson. He kept telling himself he'll visit, but he never did.

And then he told himself Sherlock wouldn't care, anyway.

He smiled bitterly to himself. Sherlock cared. He always had.

That was the reason why he plummeted to his death in the first place.

Idiot.

Bloody idiot.

The sun was still up, as it was only six, but clouds were crowding in. Still, it was easy enough for John, even at a distance, to see the small gifts at the base of the headstone. The yellow daisies made him smile. Molly, he was sure. Yellow was her color, and daisies were among the strongest of flowers. According to one of John's exes, who had fancied herself a flower expert, yellow daisies can grow even during winter.

That was Molly. No matter how cold Sherlock got, her love had remained steadfast.

The roses confused John. He'd seen them, too, the last (only) time he'd visited. He had no idea from whom they could be. They couldn't be from Mycroft. That wretched man hadn't even stayed for John's eulogy to Sherlock. And roses represented something else entirely. Not friendship; not brotherhood.

Roses were about love. Red roses were about love and passion. The kind that poets wrote about. The kind that some hopeless romantics died for.

The kind that John suspected he was feeling for Mary Morstan.

He smiled at the thought of her. Smiling had been easier for him these last couple of months. But then, the smile faded.

No woman had ever loved John Watson as he was, before. No woman had ever wanted John as long as Sherlock was around.

It was the reason why John didn't speak to Mary about Sherlock. It wasn't just that she might leave; it was also because she might just put Sherlock down somehow, and then John will want her to leave.

And he couldn't have that.

Ironically, John knew that the one person who could answer this question for him was Sherlock. Sherlock would know the truth without being told. Sherlock would know who to trust.

Sherlock wouldn't let anyone near John if they weren't 'good enough' for the doctor.

If asked, John was sure Sherlock would've denied such things. But John knew. Sherlock was awfully picky. As though he understood women any better than John did. The only woman he ever cared about was a fugitive dominatrix!

John smirked to himself at the irony.

He went toward the headstone, but stopped about six feet away. He couldn't quite bring himself to come close enough just yet.

"Hullo, Sherlock," he said. He cleared his throat. "It's been a while, 'ey?"

Understatement. The last year had been the longest of his life. The angriest. The bleakest.

"I . . . uh . . . well. I know you don't—" John winced. He really had to get used to new vocabulary. " _Didn't_ ," he corrected himself emphatically. "I know you didn't care about these occasions. Useless sentimentality was what you used to say. But I don't mind them so much, so you'll just have to bear it. Wherever the hell you are." He cleared his throat again. Stood up straight. Put his hand in his pocket and took out what he'd been hiding from Mary since that morning.

It was a personalized shot glass, with _7% Solution_ printed on it, encircling the minute diameter. John had it made years ago; he thought it would be funny. He'd planned on giving it to Sherlock the first time they'd celebrated the genius's birthday together. Of course, he'd never gotten round to it. And Sherlock's first birthday with John had been spent infiltrating a syndicate that pirated medicine and replaced it with placebo. In order to do that, they'd pretended to be janitors to the chemical factory, and John had spent an hour mucking around in the toilet for authenticity. Sherlock, of course, had somehow found favor among the office staff for magically working a notoriously temperamental Xerox machine. John had been so angry with Sherlock afterward, that he hadn't spoken to his flat mate for one week straight.

The shot glass had been buried inside his sock drawer, where all things that can no longer be held up to the light of day without remembrance of persons lost were kept.

John had unearthed it just this morning. Presently, he pulled out a flask of 12-year-old single malt Scotch from his jacket pocket. Neither Sherlock nor John had ever been much of drinkers, but celebrations should be exceptions. At least, John had often thought so.

He walked toward the headstone this time. "I propose a toast," he began, putting the shot glass down on the ground . . . beside a votive candle.

The candle was partially hidden behind Molly's daisies, and resting behind it was a familiar-looking cigarette lighter.

Puzzled, John went down on one knee and picked up the lighter. Once, it had belonged to a high-ranking official of the Palace, who had given it to Sherlock for a very delicate mission. It was the same lighter John had used to stimulate the sprinkler system inside The Woman's chic townhouse in Belgravia.

John had almost forgotten about it. He'd hidden it in his sock drawer, just as he'd tried to hide his initial write-ups, scribbled on pieces of paper, of what he'd ultimately posted as _A Scandal in Belgravia_. Sherlock had pranced around, acting as though he didn't give a whit whether or not John uploaded it, but John had waited at least a month after the whole fiasco had died down, anyway, before uploading the story.

Irene was gone. Hell, even Moriarty was gone (and may he rot in hell). Sherlock was gone.

The world was a sadder, less interesting place.

But here this lighter was, reminding John that it wasn't always so. And that . . . that . . .

He smiled.

And that it doesn't always have to be so.

Only one other person now had access to the lighter. John remembered she'd been rooting through his sock drawer only a few days ago, complaining about what a mess he was, and whatever happened to military-trained neatness, anyway?

They haven't even moved in together; hadn't so much as breathed a word of such an intimidating topic to each other just yet, and already she was nagging him, already taking control of his diet, and his home like she owned it.

Already, she was feeling his old wounds, and letting herself bear his burdens.

Today, John realized, she'd visited the grave of the best and wisest man he'd ever known. _Because_ he was the best and wisest man he'd ever known.

Because he was Sherlock, John's best friend.

Mary had yet to run away.

John poured that shot and raised the glass in a toast. "Sherlock, I've met someone special," he began, "And I think you'll like her. I wish you could meet her, because I really do think the two of you will get on just fine. Her name is Mary Morstan."

A soft breeze whistled past, and John imagined he heard that deep, sardonic voice tinged with laughter say, _"Beware any woman I get on with, John . . ."_

But that was just John's fanciful thinking.

It made him laugh, nevertheless. And it struck him, then, that it was the first time in a year that he'd laughed while thinking about Sherlock. The first time, actually, that it didn't hurt so much to think about him.

For in the year that Sherlock had been gone, this was the first time John felt that Sherlock had heard him, after all.

Maybe Sherlock had stopped being dead.

Fanciful thinking.

Or maybe, just maybe, John was moving on.

John pondered that thought. He downed another shot.

And then he shook his head. "Nah."

Sherlock was . . . he was Sherlock. He'll never be dead to John. To John, he was immortal.

And if that meant that the grief was somehow permanent, that was okay. Because John can carry on with it.

John Watson was a soldier, and he will soldier on. He was a doctor, and he will heal.

He was, and always will be, Sherlock Holmes' best friend. And that never has to change.

"Here's to hoping Mary understands that," he whispered, downing yet another shot. He ran his thumb over the shiny metal surface of the lighter and smiled. "I believe she will, though. She's not like the others. She's . . . she reminds me a bit of you, for some reason. But at the same time, she's completely different."

John put the shot glass down. He stood up, brushed the seat of his pants, and then put his hand on Sherlock's headstone. "Happy birthday, Sherlock," he said. "I miss you, mate . . . and I'll see you next time."

As he turned to leave, another, stronger gust of wind swept up. The leaves by John's feet floated up in a semi-dervish; John closed his thick jacket over his torso. Above, the spindly twigs of the trees rustled impatiently.

 _Bring Mary next time . . ._

Fanciful thinking.

So what of it? John was a writer. Fanciful thinking was his privilege.

 _Yeah,_ he thought, smiling. _Yeah, okay, Sherlock. I'll bring Mary next time_.

The End.


End file.
